


The Grief of a Genius

by PsychedelicBumblebee



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Headaches & Migraines, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I'm kinda mad at Hamilton in this one, Jefferson and Madison are best friends, Jefferson is really sad guys, Madison is hopelessly in love with Dolley, Martha Jefferson was an actual angel, Sick Character, Some serious angst, Sorry Not Sorry, This is really sad, Vomiting, based on real historical events, era-typical slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25290199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychedelicBumblebee/pseuds/PsychedelicBumblebee
Summary: A complex rewriting of Thomas Jefferson and James Madison after the death of Martha Jefferson, Thomas' wife. Some hurt/comfort, as well as serious bromance.Basically: When Thomas falls ill from a broken heart, how will James pull him from the numbness of grief?
Relationships: Dolley Madison/James Madison, Martha Wayles Jefferson/Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Jefferson & James Madison
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	1. Grief

**Author's Note:**

> So I really love history (because I'm a huge nerd), and for some reason, Jefferson in particular seriously piqued my interest, so naturally I thoroughly investigated an researched him (as I said, I'm a huge nerd). I discovered some very interesting things about Jefferson.
> 
> In particular, how he responded when his wife died. That is to say, fainted, refused to believe it had happened (as anyone grieving would do), and then proceeded to isolate himself for MONTHS.
> 
> And also the fact that he took over for Ben Franklin in becoming ambassador to France. . . AFTER his wife had died-
> 
> I just wanted to tell a not-so-bad-dude part of Jefferson's life, give myself a little perspective. I think it worked.

"Jefferson?" James Madison knock uncertainly on the looming door. No answer. He knocked again, sharply, and called out once more. When still he received not so much as a clue to any movement from the small room, he stepped back, simultaneously anxious and determined.

Then, with a clear, authoritative voice, he proclaimed, "Jefferson, I shall enter whether or not you deign to grace me with your consent."

True to his word, he strode forward cautiously. Pushing the door open with some effort, he was met with a dark, dust-filtered room. It was nearly bare, save for a bed, a bookshelf, a chair, and-

His eyes snapped back to the chair, and he gasped. There Thomas was seated- well, seated proved to be a loose term; perhaps propped served better- haphazardly against its cushions, legs spread awkwardly before him and arms laid slack on the carpet. His head was leant back against the seat, dark circles carved beneath his closed eyes. His skin, or what could be seen of it, glistened with sweat; his breathing was laboured and wheezing.

James hastened to his side, taking a limp wrist and finding a quick, thready pulse below his fingertips. He smacked Thomas' cheeks lightly, trying to rouse him. When all he received was a pained groan and a few weak coughs, he called out for help.

A servant rushed in mere moments later, his eyes wide and alarmed upon the sight of his master. Madison's voice was calmly urgent, "What happened, boy?'

"I don't know, sir," the servant replied, unable to tear his eyes from Jefferson. "You have my word, weak as it seem."

"How long has he been in here?" Madison demanded impatiently.

"About-" the young boy paused, calculating, "yes, nearly two weeks, sir."

"Then why am I the first to discover him in such a state?" Madison stood to face the servant, anger and anxiety etched deep into his expression.

"W-we were ordered to stay out, sir."

"And why is that?"

"Well, as you know, sir, Mrs. Jefferson passed only recently, and when she died, the master was right beside her. His sister had to take him by the hand into the library; he was in a strange daze or shock, like he didn't understand what had happened. He fell to unconsciousness in the library, and, about half an hour later, he woke. We were all relieved- that is, until he stumbled to his room, said very softly to stay out, and spread the word, or he'd have a severe punishment for the entire household."

Madison nodded, then gestured to the boy, "Well, come now, inside and assist me."

The servant hesitated, shaking his head vigorously, "I can't, sir, he'll-"

"What is your name?"

". . . Oscar, sir."

"The fault will fall on me, Oscar; I shall make certain so." Madison's tone became deadly calm, "Now help me, or you shall receive a worse punishment, I assure you."

At that, Oscar scurried inside, carefully grasping under Thomas' arm, and pulling it across his shoulders. Madison followed suit with Thomas' other arm, and together they lifted him.

Once Thomas was safely atop the covers, James sent the servant for a couple dozen hand-towels. He was back within moments, carefully setting the materials on the end table beside James, who was lifting Jefferson's shirt to more properly see his rib-cage. His fingers ran along the skin stretching precariously over his rib cage, searching for the telltale signs of malnutrition. James could easily trace Thomas' ribs, a fact which proved to be very disconcerting.

"Has he eaten lately, that you know of?" He queried, smoothing Jefferson's red hair back from his heated brow and listening worriedly to the man's wheezing breaths.

"His daughter made him eat, sir, before she left about five days ago," Oscar replied. "She's visiting her mother's family."

"I see," James replied, contemplating. "Get some rest; the night is old. Should I need you, I shall wake you. Close the door on your way out, if you please."

"Sir?" the boy said meekly, looking fearful and a little nervous.

James smiled softly, "I will inform Jefferson of the help you so graciously offered, in concern for your master."

Oscar smiled back gratefully, then retreated to his quarters. Madison returned his attentions to Thomas, who was groaning softly in pain. James sighed sadly, soaking a hand-towel and placing it across Thomas' head. Thomas let out another groan, eyes screwing shut and dry coughs escaping his lips. Then his eyes fluttered open suddenly, and James rushed to cup his friend's face. "Thomas? It is James, can you hear me?"

Thomas' body convulsed with a shiver and another cough, glazed eyes meeting his with some effort. His brow furrowed in confusion, "Who-?" A long silence, in which James had to tap Thomas's cheek to keep him awake, then, "James? What- Why do I ache, pray tell? I feel as if a carriage has run me over." His voice barely rose above a breath, so very weak, and it James' heart to see one of his closest friends this way. Thomas had always been so magnificent, eccentric, excited, marvelous.

And now he hardly strain to speak.

"Ah, Thomas," Madison said sadly, gently wiping a stray tear from Thomas' eye with the pad of his thumb. "You have pushed yourself too far for health's liking, my friend."

Thomas whimpered miserably, "It _hurts,_ James. It hurts, and it is so very cold."

Madison loosed the pale face, sitting back a little. "Can you sit?"

Thomas seemed to try, but his face instantly paled, breaths quickening far too easily. Then, impossibly, more colour drained from his face, eyes widening, "James- James, where is Martha?"

James hesitated, swallowing around the lump in his throat, "She is presently in the library; she wishes you to rest."

Thomas gazed at him a moment, then let out a wheezing sigh, seeming to accept James' explanation, "Very well. 'Tis insurmountably cold, is it not?"

"'Tis only the fever, my friend," he sat Thomas up, supporting him against the headboard, beginning to undo the buttons and laces of Jefferson's formal clothes. Once he had stripped him down to his undershirt, James pulled the covers over him, switching out the warm towel for a fresh one. Thomas was shaking vigorously now, "James- cold- it- don't-"

"Shh, all is well," Madison assured him softly. "Rest now."

Many minutes had dragged on before Thomas managed to drift off, his breaths steadier than before.

Madison sighed, scanning the prone form of his ailing friend; it was going to be a long week.

XXX

Thomas awoke to a parched throat and a pounding head. He suppressed a pained groan at the discovery of various pains: everything smarted, as if he had been beaten several times over with a large mallet. He was drowning in sweat, yet he shook furiously. Why was it so cold?

He frowned; how had he even gotten in bed? He knew it was his, because the last memory he could recollect was being alone in his room for some time, and before that-

His eyes stung as tears began gathering on the edges of them, and, despite his best efforts, he could not hinder the overflow. It fell down his flushed cheeks in hot streaks, trailing down his temples and over his ears, until it met the sheets. He didn't bother smothering his sob, tightening his fists and clenching his jaw until it ached.

It was a merely a cruel game, wasn't it? His life, and all it had had the audacity to snatch from him.

Something stirred next to him, presently. With great effort, Thomas turned to face it, breath catching in his throat. His close friend, James Madison, was seated closely beside him, head resting near Thomas' elbow and arms bent in such a way that his face was covered. With his breaths deep and steady, Thomas assumed the man was asleep.

But what was he doing here? Surely James had not carried him to bed? That man most certainly possessed a formidable mind, but that was where his strength ceased; James himself would admit so.

Yet, he looked disheveled, as if he hadn't moved for a relatively long time. From the looks of him, he hadn't left the room itself. But for what reason?

Perhaps Thomas had fallen ill?

He weakly pressed two fingers to the pulse point on his wrist, where he found a quick, thready rhythm. Biting his cheek, he lifted a hand to his forehead, pressing his palm against it. There was suddenly a cooling balm there, clearing his head a little. Nevertheless, he pulled it away in irritation; he most definitely had a fever. Wondrous.

Then a tickle made itself known in the base of his throat, and before he could shove it down, a coughing fit had seized him. He pitched upwards with each convulsion, waking James abruptly, who quickly blinked the sleep from his eyes. He sat Thomas up to help him breathe easier, rubbing his back soothingly.

"Steady breaths, my friend," he muttered quietly, until eventually the fit ceased. He made Thomas drink some water, despite his friend's protests that his stomach churned.

His throat still hurt, but not nearly as much as before, so he tried for a question, gripping his still-throbbing chest, "How-" His voice failed him, however, and it wasn't until he'd swallowed at least a dozen times before he felt he could try again. "How long have you _been_ here?" His tone was incredulous, almost comical, and James would have laughed, given any other circumstance.

"Not nearly as long as you have, I'm certain," James replied tersely. Thomas blinked at James in confusion. But he had been in his room mere days. . . hadn't he?

"How long have I been ill?" Thomas inquired slowly, bracing himself for a ridiculous number.

"I am not certain myself," James said, looking hard and scolding at him. "I was told, however, that you have isolated yourself in here for around a week. Care to explain?"

Thomas blanched, "I had not realized- a week? Surely not so long? Are you certain it is a week since I have entered my quarters?"

"Reasonably so. You do not recall your time spent here prior to losing consciousness?"

Thomas shook his head. "I do not recall losing consciousness," he admitted. He looked down confusedly, "What happened to my clothes?"

Madison chuckled softly, eyes wrinkling a little at the corners, "You became too warm for health, my friend."

"Ah."

James studied him a moment, smile fading, "Have you been crying, my dear Thomas?" He wasn't incredulous, nor scoffing; concern and something like expectation of an answer- _yes-_ flooded his tone and his face.

Thomas bit his cheek hard.

"No," he replied quietly, averting his eyes in embarrassment.

But James smiled kindly, "'Tis nothing to be ashamed of. I know why you grieve; I was informed of Martha's passing." His face fell in sympathy.

Thomas' gaze met James, his heart aching horribly, "That is why have-?"

James nodded, taking Thomas' hand in a mute show of comfort.

Silence settled.

"Open," James demanded abruptly.

Thomas blinked, blurting lamely: "What?"

"Open," Madison repeated patiently. "I must check your temperature again?"

Thomas obeyed, reluctantly letting the thermometer slip under his tongue. "How-?" he tried, slightly muffled, but James hushed him, watching the mercury closely.

"102.3," he announced, tucking the device back into his shirt pocket neatly.

"How many times have you done that?" Thomas tried again.

Madison only smirked, humming a song Thomas hadn't the energy to recognize. He simply rolled his eyes halfheartedly and shut his eyes.

"You realize," Madison began, amused, "I am more commonly the one to fall ill, and you are the one wrestling with me to allow you, along with an all-too-amused Dolley, to care for me?"

Thomas chuckled softly, cracking an eye open, "Yes: the roles have inverted rather swiftly, have they not?"

James returned the chuckle, "Indeed they have."


	2. Pain

_Thump._

James' hand stilled in the midst of the word "perhaps". He looked at the wall before him as he listened. When nothing more reached his ears, he continued his letter.

Several moments later, a muffled coughing fit rang from Thomas' room. James' hand stilled again, eyes half-glaring at, half-pleading with the "my dearest one" gracing the paper. Thomas was meant to be sleeping; what was that ridiculous man doing up and about?

When the fit kept on, James stood, cursing aimlessly under his breath. Quietly, swiftly, he strode towards the room, barely restraining himself from yanking the door open.

Thomas was curled up tightly on the floor, shaking furiously and breathing shakily. His eyes were unfocused, brows furrowed, and James deduced the man was making a momentous effort not to throw up.

He crouched beside his friend, seeking the fever-bright eyes until they unsteadily met his gaze. It seemed merely lifting his eyes made his stomach churn.

"Thomas," James began slowly, patiently, "why, pray tell, are you on the floor?"

He attempted a casual smile, but it ended as more of a grimace, "Tryin' t' get up?"

"Why?"

"I am. . . not ill?

"Yes," James retorted dryly, feeling the man's burning head, "you are, Thomas."

Jefferson jerked away, somehow managing to push himself up with a determined hand on the bed frame. But, as James looked on disapprovingly, his legs rebelled, immediately collapsing beneath him.

He gasped, knees hitting the carpet as he went limp. He fell forward until James caught him, who then rubbed his back in what comfort he could offer.

From where Jefferson lay in the crook of Madison's neck, he coughed weakly, breaths escaping in wheezes. "I'm- I am _fine_ ," he rasped painfully, though he was struggling not to pass out.

"No, my friend, you most certainly are _not_ ," James replied, voice cracking. Whether in fear, anger, or frustration, he knew not.

Thomas coughed again, so James adjusted them both so that Thomas was resting sideways in his lap, with his head resting on James' chest. It was strange, to say in the least: the taller relying on the smaller for comfort. Thomas re-buried his face in the crook of James' neck, breath stuttering frantically.

James' shirt was becoming steadily damp now, and Thomas was making a noise strange to Madison's ears, especially from a man such as him.

James rested his hand on the small of Thomas' back, face wrought with concern, "Thomas?"

Thomas gripped him fiercely about the waist, the sounds of distress growing ever clearer. James lifted his friend's chin gently, and his heart shattered.

The man was a mess: eyes averted in shame, tears streaming down his cheeks, face tinted scarlet. He seemed. . . furious _._

"Why did Martha have to die, James?" Thomas growled, searching James' eyes now in desperation and ire. "Why could it not have been me?"

"Thomas-" he said softly, face falling.

"She deserved nothing less than the world, yet she received nothing more than the _rags_ I offered!" The exclamation, though docile in its nature, would have been a shout if Thomas could have afforded it, James was sure.

Thomas buried his face again and grasped his friend tighter, as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded to sanity. James returned the embrace as Thomas sobbed silently.

"I should have done more, James- I should've sent for the doctor more frequently, I should've kissed her more, I should've danced with her more, like she'd always ask me to, I should've made her laugh more, I should've-" his own hindered sob cut him off, and a hiccup escaped his lips as he fought in vain to regain his breath.

James hushed him gently again, rocking him as one would a small, frightened child, "All advantages to her health were done by your hands alone, Thomas. Pray think not otherwise, my dear friend. Prosperity and kindness themselves are jealous of your offerings, I can assure you."

Impossibly, James' shirt was gripped tighter, and a grieving, muffled cry emerged his friend's lips. His sobs wavered, growing more distraught as he shook viciously with grief and fever.

"But I am so very weak, James," He croaked bitterly, gasping and voice muffled.

"Yet that does not entail, my dear Thomas, that you cannot be courageous."

Neither of them spoke after that; James knew it would only break both men's hearts more. And that was more than either of them would be able to cope with at the moment. It would surely come back to bite them later, yes, but they would have to burn that bridge when they got there.

Thomas eventually managed to drift off, face still slick with hot tears. Nevertheless, James noted with satisfaction, his breath had most definitely steadied, though heat was still emanating off him in waves.

He knew it would likely be best to get Thomas back into bed, but he didn't want to wake him, and he couldn't carry him. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat, gently drying Thomas' face.

By some fortune, the wall stood close enough behind them that James could easily lean back without shifting about too much. So he simply conceded to remain where he was (nevermind the fact that his back would slowly become numb in that position), and attempt to comfort Thomas as he slept. It was peaceful.

XXX

Thomas gasped awake to molten-hot pain shooting through his head. It launched him into a painful coughing fit, every convulsion striking his skull like a hammer to a nail. Hot tears spilled down his flushed cheeks, and he was vaguely aware of an easing hand on his back.

He coughed forever, craning his head just enough bring up the contents of his stomach onto the carpet when at last it ceased, though little emerged. He shook furiously, lethargy pooling through him. James said something, but he couldn't hear it over the pulsating pounding in his own head.

"Thomas," James said, very quietly, but still it threatened to split his skull. He could only groan softly in response, coughing wetly.

He could not even strive to crack open his eyes, for fear of the damage it might dole out to him. He managed to breathe, "Ja-" before he could no longer bear the torment.

Madison seemed already to suspect what was wrong, because, when next he spoke, he hardly went above a whisper, and wisely avoided Thomas' ear. Still, he asked: "What pains you?"

Thomas had to breathe deeply for several moments, trying to regain his bearings and nearly succeeding, "Head."

"One to one-hundred?"

". . .three h'n'dr'd."

Madison cursed softly, continuing to make soothing circles on his friend's back.

Jame knew of these severe headaches Thomas suffered, without fail, after a loss such as this. Martha had always been the one to tend to them, but now she could not.

He recalled suddenly the day John Adams had accidentally run his carriage over an elderly chicken Thomas happened to be very fond of, while Adams and Madison had been making a friendly visit. Thomas had raged vehemently at a very puzzled Adams for several minutes before abruptly crying out and clutching his head. He nearly collapsed, but Adams and Madison caught him. Somehow the small men were able to drag Thomas to his wife, who managed to simultaneously smile apologetically, gratefully, and exasperatedly at them.

The chicken was promptly scraped off the ground and given a proper funeral so as to avoid another potential outburst of pain.

But James digressed.

He dared not move Thomas, for fear of causing the poor man more suffering. It was already an inky dark in the small room, and deathly quiet, save for James' soft breathing and Thomas' quiet, quick ones. Perhaps heat would serve to alleviate him?

James carefully leaned forward, trying his best not to wince at his friends' whimpers. He grasped two comforters from the bed, using one to wrap Thomas in (mostly his head and shoulders), and the other around them both.

He was relieved when Jefferson sighed and relaxed, snuggling further into James' lap. Madison was aware that feeding heat to a fever wasn't a prime idea, but he hoped that by lessening an unrelated headache, it would at least bring Thomas some comfort and perhaps even do more good than ill.

With the latest dilemma solved promptly, James was becoming increasingly aware of the soreness in his back. Fortunately, he managed to stretch his back without rousing an already dozing Thomas. Then he pulled the thermometer from his pocket, slipping it into Thomas' mouth, who did little else than stir a little in response. The mercury stopped after too long and James pulled it out: 104.1

His eyes widened in shock, and he tried his best to still his frayed nerves, forcing himself to think: _what to do, what to do what to do-!_

"Calm yourself, James," he said to himself, grateful to hear a lucid voice. "It will bring Thomas no good to panic."

With all the gentleness to be displayed by a mother, James lifted his friend, blankets and all, and stood. He had feared that he might buckle under the weight, but with the toll which worry and grief had taken on Thomas, he was much lighter than expected.

Jefferson coughed, whimpering when James arranged him beneath the covers. James hushed him softly, and, satisfied with his handiwork, poked his head cautiously into the hall. Spotting a nearby servant, he gestured to her, easily brushing off her baffled expression. She left with a summon for Oscar, who came rushing down the hall several minutes later, looking far better than before.

"Sir?" he whispered, when James signaled it.

"Your master requires medical attention; send for his private doctor."

"Sir," Oscar replied nervously, "I am a mere housekeeper. But I can send a messenger, if you would have me?"

"Yes, excellent, I would," James replied. He gripped the servant's arm firmly, "Tell both to make haste."

The boy nodded, then disappeared down the hallway.

XXX

After much too long, Jefferson's doctor arrived. James had been snapping in and out of a doze when the door opened, brushing softly against the carpet.

James forced himself to wakefulness, standing and greeting the doctor, "You must be Dr. Petersen. Thank you for coming on such short notice, and I apologize for my appearance: the past few hours have been. . . _difficult_."

"Pray let it stray from your mind, dear fellow," the man replied, smiling amiably. James took the opportunity give the other man a quick once-over. Petersen had salt-and-pepper hair, glasses, and a few measly inches on James (unsurprisingly). There was a friendly, non-threatening gleam in his eye, as James himself sought in a good doctor. Laugh lines traced the corners of his grey orbs, contrasting the worry lines creased on his brow from so many years of encountering countless suffering patients.

"What was indeed the cause of such a hasty summon?" the doctor was asking.

James shook himself mentally, "Mr. Jefferson has taken gravely ill, I'm afraid. I had been able to banish the worst of the fever for a time, but it has become dangerously high."

Petersen peered at James over his glasses, "May I inquire as to your affiliation with Mr. Jefferson? I regret the need to ask such a thing, but-"

"No, it is quite alright," James replied quickly, scratching the back of his head shyly and refusing to meet the doctor's eyes. "I am a close friend of Thomas': James Madison." He awkwardly stuck out a hand; Petersen obliged warmly, a teasing glimmer in his eye.

"Ah, yes! He certainly _has_ mentioned you." Petersen grinned, _tsk_ ing, "Always falling ill. . ." James would laugh at that later, but for now he could merely turn a brilliant shade of scarlet.

The doctor waved his hand dismissively, smiling kindly, "My apologies, Mr. Madison; your health is not the priority as of this moment."

James nodded, feeling the burn on his face begin to lessen; he'd always been one to keep the attention off himself, allowing himself to thrive in the background. It had always just felt more. . . _natural_ that way.

"You mentioned fever?" Petersen asked, receiving a nod from James. "Any other symptoms?"

James nodded once more as the doctor inspected Thomas closely. "Er. . . throwing up, dazed, very weak."

"Has he had any hallucinations?" Petersen asked as he checked Thomas' pulse.

"Hmm. . . no, I don't believe so. He has a severe headache, but it is not connected; of this, I am certain."

"No hallucinations is a good sign, Mr. Madison. Precarious fevers are good friends with such things."

Madison allowed his shoulders to relax a little.

"I see his breathing is laboured, "The doctor murmured. "Lungs sound fine; ribs are too prominent." He looked over at Madison, who was quietly observing. "Do you possibly know when Mr. Jefferson last ate?"

"I am. . . uncertain. However, I was informed it has been an unhealthy span of time."

Petersen hummed thoughtfully, considering a moment, "I believe it is merely a heavy fatigue, especially taking into account his recent loss." (His face fell in sympathy here.) "I would recommend feeding him water and simple foods, such as soup, on a two-hour basis. Keep a cool cloth on him at all times, if possible, just to help the fever break swiftly."

James nodded, releasing a breath of relief, "Thank you, doctor."

Petersen nodded, returning all his equipment to his carpetbag, "You are most welcome, Mr. Madison. Now, I have other patients I must attend to, but if anything goes awry, let me know immediately."

Madison nodded again, and Petersen was gone.


	3. Healing

Thomas didn't remember much as he was trapped between consciousness and oblivion.

He dreamed, too, but he could never make sense of it. Once, he dreamt that Martha and him were picnicking together, and all was quiet and still.

He woke up crying, though he wasn't sure why.

Whenever he managed to surface back to the waking world, he could never conjure the energy to stay awake. He felt as if he could sleep for weeks, and still be utterly exhausted. He would make a questioning noise, scared out of his wits and confused as to why he hurt so much, and a soft voice would hush him gently. Someone would wipe his forehead with a cool cloth, and he would fall asleep again.

Sometimes he was convinced that an axe was splitting his skull open, and he couldn't help but cry out in pain.

_Stop! It hurts!_

He would writhe and cry out, tears streaming down his face, but every time a voice would calm him, and every time he would still, sinking back into blank darkness.

When at last he woke, his room dimly lit and empty, he wondered briefly if he had only dreamt of his Martha's passing. But the thought alone made tears prick at his eyes. He blinked them away. When he stood, he was forced to lean on the nearest wall for support, for he swayed dangerously; his vision blackened suddenly, and he feared he might faint.

But the dark spots faded quickly, and he found he possessed enough strength to stumble around on his own. Though his heart pounded in his ears, and he was already nearly winded by the time he made it to the threshold of his room, he eventually managed to stagger into one of his many dining rooms.

He was blankly thinking about all the dinners they had had together when a loud noise from the kitchen startled him. A moment later James Madison emerged, easily balancing a steaming bowl, a cup of water, and silverware on a tray.

He halted when they locked gazes, apparently not expecting to see his friend up and about. Thomas could only manage a small, genuine smile, though he was sure it looked closer to a mere stare and he wished suddenly he had the energy to produce something more deserving of his vigilant friend.

After a moment, James set down his supplies and strode to him, both hands cupping the his face in worry, "My dear Thomas, you are awake, I see. How do you fare?" He was searching his eyes, as if fearing Thomas might not actually be awake, and what a silly though that was.

Thomas coughed, grimacing and voice rough from under-use, "I know not, my friend, for I cannot recall much, and I feel as if my own horses have run me over."

James felt his head, and, when Thomas shivered, wrapped around him a blanket he didn't care to wonder where he had gotten.

James' lips tugged upward, relieved, "You feel much cooler, and it lifts my spirits. I was presently on way to offer you some sustenance in your own bed. But now that you are here, I can perceive no reason to guide you back to have you eat it."

Thomas began to protest, but then James was leading him a chair, and he remembered he didn't have enough energy to walk back to his room in any case.

Madison pushed the bowl of soup in front of him, and Thomas was grateful that his stomach didn't churn at the sight of it, as he expected. He stirred it absently with a spoon: vegetable soup.

He peered at James, who looked back at him expectantly, "Did. . . you brew this concoction, James?"

Madison nodded, no shame in his eyes at the prospect of doing a woman's job, "I _can_ cook, my friend. I haven't much else to do about the house, and Dolley refuses to a be a 'slaving housewife', as she says." He chuckled, cocking his head and eyes glinting, "She can be very. . . persuasive."

Thomas smiled a little again, albeit sadly, "How fares your significant other, by the way?"

James shook his head, smiling back, "Do not attempt to distract me, Thomas. Eat, before I am tempted to begin regaling tales of my charming home doings; your soup awaits. I perceive it is up to your standards, for the vegetables are directly from your garden, as per usual."

Thomas made a teasing face took a bite nonetheless. It was delicious. "The next party I host, I believe I shall have you as caterer." He laughed when James' face flushed. "Thirty-one years of age, and I see you still fail to accept even a well-earned compliment."

James swatted him lightly on the arm, glaring, but he couldn't hinder a laugh, " _Eat,_ Thomas."

Thomas complied, and by the time he had finished, James was relieved to see some colour returning to his friend's face. He put the empty bowl to the side, for the servants to collect later, and convinced Thomas to drain the glass of water, along with three others.

Thomas looked up, eyes deceitfully bright, "Care for a round of chess?"

James grinned; Thomas would be alright, he was sure of it now.

XXX

"Checkmate. My victory," James announced, grin falling when Thomas smirked and innocently moved his king to the side. James followed it with his bishop, but failed to see Thomas' waiting rook.

James frowned, trapping Thomas' king at last with his knight, and Thomas laughed, leaning back in his seat, "Very well, now I am beaten."

James chuckled, beginning to reset the board, "Another?"

Thomas smiled in confusion, "My friend, do I recall incorrectly that we have already gone some twenty rounds?"

James smile grew, and he looked up at him, "No, Thomas, you are quite correct."

"Then why, pray tell, must you feel the need to play another game?"

"Because the score is still in your favour."

"You are keeping score?"

"Naturally."

"You are a strange one, James Madison." Thomas shook his head in amusement, "Here I had the misconception that we were playing for old times' sake."

"Oh, we were. Until you had the gall to challenge me," James explained, smirking.

"Oh? When did I do such a impertinent thing?"

"When you took my queen for the sixth time and proclaimed that you were the better than I. This is fraudulent, however, and I shall to prove it you."

"Will you, now?" Thomas cocked his head, smiling widely.

"I will indeed, Thomas."

Thomas' eyes gleamed, "Oh, the game is on, my friend."

XXX

The silence was beginning to bother him.

Reluctantly, he raised his eyes to peer at Thomas, who was nestled against his side, bundled warmly in a blanket. He was staring blankly at the couch cushions, evidently lost in thought. James sighed in resignation and closed his book, "Pray tell, Thomas: what creates a whirlwind within your mind?"

Thomas was silent for several moments before letting out a horrible, stifled string of coughs that ended with him retching on his blanket.

James cursed, rushing to catch him when he began to sag forward, exhausted. He managed to steady his friend, kneeling before him and gripping his shoulders.

Thomas didn't look at him, but James could easily hear the tears in his voice when he spoke, "Martha and I always read together on the sofa. Every night; she insisted." His voice cracked and James immediately knew he was ardently suppressing sobs.

James lifted his chin, gently wiping the tears from his face, "Let us clean you up, and then I shall read to you. What say you to that?" Thomas nodded shakily after a moment, breaths hiccuping and tears spilling onto his cheeks. It is better, after all, for grief to be expelled rather than allowing it fester within.

Fortunately, the blanket had taken the brunt of the damage, and James was able to simply replace the fleece blanket with a fresh one, and be done with it. He reopened his forgotten book, settling Thomas back against him, as they had been.

Wiping Thomas' mouth with cool cloth, James felt his head; it was warm, but not very: a relief within itself.

James cleared his throat, beginning to read:

_"'Now all the others who were saved from utter ruin were  
_ _at home, safe both from war and sea. Him only, longing  
_ _for his home and wife, the potent nymph Calypso, a heavenly  
_ _goddess, held in her hollow grotto, desiring him to be her husband.  
_ _Yet, when the time had come in the revolving years at which the  
_ _gods ordained his going home to Ithaca, even then, among his kin,  
_ _he was not freed from trouble.'"_

Thomas hummed in appreciative acknowledgement, "Odyssey?"

James hummed back in affirmation, reading late into the night, even after Thomas had drifted off, head nestled in James' lap.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have a copy of the Odyssey on my bookshelf.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So another very interesting fact I found while researching Jefferson: he actually had serious social anxiety and performance anxiety. Ironic, I know.
> 
> Also, I have a head-canon that James sent Thomas in place of Benjamin Franklin to help Thomas cope with his grief. Give him something to do, but not too busy, so he could actually cope, and not just avoid it altogether.
> 
> And this chapter set after that, and most of it is right after the first cabinet battle from the musical.

Thomas took a shuddering breath, then another when his throat still felt constricted. He felt like he was dying, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't cease the intermittent trembling of his hands, nor the painful tightness in his stomach.

He drew another breath and held it for a few moments, before letting it out slowly, shakily.

This wasn't working.

He still wanted to curl up into a ball and die, and the debate hadn't even begun yet. It wasn't even that he was afraid of speaking or afraid (pfft) of Hamilton. Just the prospect of being up there. . .

He shuddered.

Someone gripped his hands, and he looked into a pair of swimming brown eyes. James smiled, kneeling before him, "I agree Thomas. It is terrifying, as it always will be. But we mustn't show them; they must see how courageous we are, and you, dear Thomas, are the bravest man I know."

Thomas flushed immediately, a shaky smile tugging at his lips. Another breath, and he summoned the most charismatic smile he could muster.

"Ready?" James asked, and they strode into the courtroom.

XXX

Hamilton had won Washington's favour.

Again.

Jefferson honestly didn't understand how an intelligent man such as Hamilton could be so infuriatingly insistent with something so obviously inherently cyclic.

On the basis of intellect, they stood on an equal playing field, Thomas would gladly admit so. The gears in both their minds turned in similar ways; James, too.

But a national debt? What use would that be?

And with the whiskey tax involved, they were simply repeating history in arguably the worst possible way. It was a ridiculous political stroke, to be sure.

But Thomas could deal with that, could handle a petty disagreement in politics. That was what these debates were for, after all: to see an issue and deal with it in the most efficient way.

But then Alexander had made it personal.

_Off getting high with the French?_

If Hamilton had bothered to do his homework, he would have known that James had proposed becoming ambassador to France in place of a retiring Benjamin Franklin as a way of helping Thomas cope with his loss.

As for 'getting high,' Thomas had made it a point in his life to avoid smoking nearly as much as his peers: he'd always had a bad vibe from those things.

Hamilton had even dared to take a hit at Madison, who had hardly said a word the entire span of the argument; Thomas had felt the anger rise in him at Hamilton's shot, but James didn't appear to mind the seemingly rough insult, so he begrudgingly let it slide.

This time.

And Jefferson tried not to take it personally, but it truly was difficult. He reminded himself that debates were not meant to be personal, not meant to hit below the belt.

It helped that Hamilton himself had admitted before that he wasn't exactly the epitome of social etiquette.

"Jefferson?" Madison was asking softly, standing uncertainly behind him. "Are you alright, my friend?"

Thomas realized he was gripping his cane, knuckles slowly turning white. Suddenly he was grateful that the cane, a gift from Madison many a year prior, was custom-made such that it didn't snap beneath his very fingers.

He gritted his teeth, closing his eyes and drawing a slow, deep breath to control his rising ire.

This time, it worked, and when he opened his eyes, his appetite has reappeared (having disappeared when Hamilton mentioned France). He smiled coolly at James, waving him over as he strode to the doors of the crowded courthouse, "I'm in the mood for macaroni and cheese. Care to join?"

XXX

Thomas wanted to punch something.

If he had any less self-control, that something would be Hamilton's face. Or perhaps one of the court members, if he was feeling particularly bold.

After a short lunch, Jefferson had managed to convince Madison to tell him everything he knew about Hamilton.

Know thine enemy, after all.

What James told him had him struggling not to find Alexander's address and give him a thorough telling-to.

Not only had Hamilton easily gained the _personal_ favour of the president, but he had also just gotten married, and, to add insult to injury, was spending more time at work than with his new family.

Thomas was enraged; Hamilton didn't understand what he had, did he?

James agreed: not only was Eliza able to give birth to beautiful, healthy children, unlike Dolley (Thomas _was_ pleased to find that Hamilton's children possessed excellent minds), but the couple were both very much alive, and in exceptional health.

How inconceivably selfish.

How much more would Hamilton miss?

**Author's Note:**

> I actually got a lot of this story, and the echo of a particular scene from two different fanarts, of which I cannot find at the moment. Maybe I can put them in a bonus chapter at a later date. . .


End file.
